One night a few days later, after spending most of the day in the office, Jack works on getting caught up with the paperwork, payroll, and invoices, ordering, paying bills, and prepping for the next haul. Next to his desk, he takes a sandwich out of the small refrigerator he bought to keep meals in so he wouldn’t have to mess up Qaniit’s kitchen, and to avoid her.

Taking his first bite, the office phone rings. Quickly washing his food down with water, he answers on the third ring, “Nasak Fishing Company. This is Jack speaking.”

“Jack? It’s Qaniit,” she says barely audible. “Grandfather passed. We’re all going to the house now.”

His heart skips a beat, not only because he hasn’t heard her voice in days, but with this news. He doesn’t want to go to the house. This is a time for family to be together. He is not family but an employee.

“Can you pick me up on the way?” she says.

Oh, great. Ulloriaq had given him the truck for a supply run for the boat this day. Although as a pastor he had helped those in this state of mourning, it’s no longer his place. He doesn’t belong, either as a family-member, or as a pastor. But, she needs a ride. “Okay,” he whispers. He hangs up and drives to the Prospector.

Qaniit waits for him on the porch, her long, black hair blowing across her tender, snowy-white face. As he watches her walk over to the truck, he can’t help but think how she has seen so much tragedy in her life. She climbs in, brushes her hair aside, tucking it behind her left ear and revealing to him such a sad face he feels he might die all over again. First her parents, then her husband, now her grandfather. Malik had raised her. Her protector is gone.

After she buckles in, he spontaneously reaches over, takes her hand in his, gently squeezing it. She looks over at him and he removes his hand, putting it on the wheel to drive.

They ride in silence. Jack glances over at her once, but she stares out through the windshield.

He pulls up, parks and shuts off the engine. She climbs out, starts for the house, but looks back at Jack sitting in the truck. She doubles back, comes over to the open driver window. “What’s wrong?”

He looks at her. “Nothing. I’ll take you back when you’re done.” He looks away from her.

“You’re not coming in?”

“No. No, I, I don’t think I should. It’s a time for family.” He looks back at her as her hair falls off her ear and covers half of her moonlit face.

She once again brushes at her hair tucking it behind her ear. “Jack, you’ve been a part of our family for a while now.”

Family? He turns his head away from her again and reaches for the amaroq claw, squeezing it.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Hiding it from her, he wipes at his eye to catch a tear.

Qaniit opens the truck’s door, takes his hand. “Come on,” she says.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” She tugs on his hand, but he doesn’t budge. “Would you come on?” she says, pulling.

Defeated, again, he gets out of the truck. As she leads him inside by his hand, his heart races.

The door opens to reveal many family members including aunts, uncles, cousins, and Ulloriaq and Akiak, who both spot the handholding as they come through the door. Qaniit and Jack release their hands. The family surrounds them. Ulloriaq hugs Jack. The aunts, uncles, and cousins all take turns hugging Qaniit and Jack.

Jack has flashbacks. Memories, sorrow, pain. A sniffling Akiak comes over and hugs him, dripping tears on his shoulder. Jack squeezes the kid and says, “I know, kid. I know.”

They stay for a little while, until after the funeral director retrieves Malik’s body. Jack drives Qaniit back to the Prospector, both riding in silence.

Inside, Jack heads for the stairs as Qaniit closes the front door. “Jack?” she calls to him.

He stops and half-turns to face her.

“Thank you,” she says. “For coming in.” She walks over to him, standing a foot away. “It means a lot to me.”

His heart beats faster. He wants to run upstairs, crash down his door, and bury himself in the pillows and hide like he has done so many times these past weeks. “I’m so sorry, Qaniit. Whatever I can do to help.” He looks down at the first step of the stairs.

She examines something on his face and reaches up. He flinches, but she wipes at a small tear welling under his eye. He closes his eyes, tight.

“I’m so sorry, Jack,” she says.

He opens his eyes and discovers tears now dripping from her eyes onto her cheeks. He reaches up and wipes some tears from her cheek with the tips of his fingers. However, she sheds more and begins to quiver. He reaches out and pulls her close, hugging her tightly. She buries her face in his chest.

They embrace for quite some time. Sobbing, she soaks his Prospector T-shirt with her tears. After a minute, perhaps two, they pull back and look into one another’s eyes. Her soul is as void as mine.

Out of nowhere, and at the same time, they kiss and hold it.

In an abrupt second, just as fast as they kissed, they pull apart. “I’m sorry,” Jack says pulling away, looking down and away from her. “I…I don’t know what I was thinking.”

She hurries to her room, Jack watching, feeling like a fool for letting that happen, taking advantage of her grief. That is not me. Who I am. I’ve never acted like this in my entire life.What was I thinking? Was I thinking?

He sprints up to his room and does what he had wanted to do all along, jump into bed, curl up, and hug his pillow. He glances over at his family photo propped up against his Bible. He lies there, staring.

Zach, a young veteran, contemplates suicide after a horrific tour in Afghanistan when Ernest Hemingway appears and stops him.

He enrolls in college where he falls in love with Jessica, a young woman from a wealthy family. Her love stabilizes him, and Hemingway’s appearances become less frequent, until she doesn’t return to school after break. He confronts her father who tells him he is not to see her again.

Alone, haunted by the wars, and with his friend Hemingway pestering him, he descends into alcoholism.

Teaming up with one of Zach’s army buddies, and in defiance of her parents, Jessica searches for him. But will they find him in time to save his life? And is her love enough to help him find redemption?

The dance hall was
more like a storage warehouse, a cavernous shadowy funhouse. Everything swirled
colors before the drugs even kicked in. Meandering through the angelic
ghost-like dancers, they quickly found their way to the front of the stage

The evangelical
alchemy of the Grateful Dead—and Jerry Garcia’s nimbus of black hair, belied
his un-rock star stature and glory. She was mesmerized from the beginning by
his angelic plaintive voice, all teary toned and wise; with a beat that was
both an easy rhythm, and blue, at the same time. His voice—a helpless mournful
supplication to a distant, seemingly almost
attainable heaven. She had never heard such a soulful voice and yearning
guitar harmonizing together. Music being created,
rather than planned or executed—a perfectly refined improvisation; jams that
went on for twenty minutes.

Strobe light
staccato-jerky movements pulsed beneath cellular exploding light shows. Tie-dye
florescent togas undulated in waves, spinning dervish dancers in bare feet and
flowing prairie skirts, and dancers—swimming wildly in mid-air, scaring away
the phantoms from every ancient dancehall visions and high school hops of the
past. The ghost was cleared. The dead were grateful

And hair; hair,
everywhere hair, flapping and flying, flouncing and bouncing like windblown
willows, fleece braided tentacles. Sweat pouring off in a rain storm of
complete abandon and all the head-snapping corybantic dancing...even the name
of the band—shattered any lingering fears or presentments of eminent endings or
destruction. They had the audience pulsing with them upon each note, as if
everyone there had all taken the same psychedelic drug together and knew it.

Then that roaring,
dominating sound, as if dozens of jet planes became harmonic in the same frame,
the drawn-out agony solos as ecstasy; a waterfall of bass notes wrapping
tightly around vibrating electric guitars, all twisted together by an electric
organ, and pounded into one’s body fueled by duel drummers. All six parts in
unison, improvising perfectly together. Music at once busy and clean, bouncy
and diabolical; she felt as if they were all vibrating underwater together,
hyperventilating through the same gas mask of joyous, psychedelic drugs.

Pig-Pen, the scruffy,
street urchin, biker, circus barker organist/vocalist striding center stage,
intoning everyone to “Get your hands out of your pockets!” and “dance” and then
actually specifically pointing out and shaming any non-compliers; until
everyone, in spite of themselves, had their own unique mojo going. His
disheveled, tough- guy menace, ready at any moment to strut forth and
forcefully break into the middle of the instrumental perfume. It was far-out,
spacey, time-machine, liquid blues in glorious melody, hatcheted open by an
interloping shit-between-the toes, down-home barn yard, western funkiness.
Everyone was rocking slowly as one big conscious, peristaltic, snaking engine
to the pure music throbbing through each pore of existence.

Donna had never
experienced anything like it. And what happened next had her actively
disbelieving what she was witnessing.

Some audacious woman
in the audience was overly troubled by Pig Pen’s bold, peacock strutting. She
jumped on stage from the side, and theatrically mocking his swagger, moved in
and grabbed his microphone right out of his hand. While Donna expected security
to quickly show up, others around her started jumping up and down and clapping
wildly. Normally mellow, Shell went wild too.

“That’s Janis
Joplin!”

“Yeah?”

Donna knew she should
be really impressed, but something about her wasn’t really impressive. Long,
unkempt brown hair, a floppy brown blouse, a pair of tight green bellbottoms,
little make up and mismatched jewelry; she looked more like she might have just
crawled out of a basement rocking chair, mocking Donna’s vision of a rock
queen.

Flailing with the
pulse of the rising rhythm, incarnating a musical spirit of her generation,
head down in concentration, she gyrated closer and threateningly closer to the
lead singer. Arms thrashing above her head, within and through her entire body,
limber but wobbly, she blended orgasmicly with the electronic vibration. She
was a definite show all on her own. But it didn’t make sense—she had her own
famous band she could do that with, Big Brother and the Holding Company, why
did she need to upstage the Dead? An excess demanding attention to replace
love? A savage consumption of admiration, driving toward her own ecstasy? The
previous gentle, sunbeam aura and daisy chain dancing was suddenly being rent,
by a playful but viscous knife. Most stood more amazed and observant.

Pushing Pig Pen
playfully to the side with her rocking hips, the band, confused, warmed up to a
tighter and tighter rhythm.

“Okay, big boy. Let’s
see you whip it out!” Left hand extending the mic away from him in a clumsy
pirouette, while her right hand grabbed at his crotch.

“Come-on, honey. If’n
you won’t whip it out for us and show us what the big band leader’s got here,
you gonna loose your gig to little ole’ Janis...” Theatrically bending over.

“Oooh noooo; my ole’
lady get the rolling pin after me...”

“Well then, you just
lost yer lead here hot shot. See you later...”

And as startled fans
hooted and shared bemused glances, Pig Pen quietly, without further fuss, moved
off stage. Janis swaggered, danced in over-pleased ambling circles, threw her
head back in celebration, and clapped frantically for audience support.

Jerry Garcia, looking
less worried than entertained, calmly motioned to the other band members with a
head nod to crank up the flurry, and entered into an unnamed jazz type jam.
Janis jumped, danced and whirled about, cherishing her newly assigned role as
“band leader.” But apparently tiring herself out with wild dancing, she soon
ambled aggressively toward the lead guitarist. With a mischievous,
conspiratorial nod toward the wide-eyed spectators, she crowded and loomed in
on Jerry Garcia.

Carefully positioning
herself to the right and slightly behind him, she bent her knees, squatted
slightly, and wrapped her crotch around the back of Jerry’s guitar. Lingering
there, she began, slowly at first, throbbing and sexually mimicking intercourse
to the beat of the drums with Jerry and his guitar.

While no one in the
crowd assumed they might see sex right there on stage, Donna could feel a
collective “now what?!” of bewilderment shared by everyone else in the crowd.
Everyone seemed to be holding their breath in expectant anticipation.

What
happened next clearly stunned Janis as much as every other eye glued upon them
in the old warehouse.

Tuesday, February 6, 2018

Kimi McKenna finds herself thrust somewhere into the future where dark elements threaten to destroy the earth unless Kimi can work together with the white witch to stop the destruction.

Buy at: Amazon

EXCERPT: Sweet Surrender

She caressed his cheek again, nodding her answer. I want to make love to you, Maska O’keefe. I don’t want you to make any excuses, maybe not tonight but soon. I am not too weak to know my mind.

“I think it’s time we left the lovers alone. They have no use for us, and Kimi is no longer in danger. She does have her mate.” Lyn cleared her throat, backing from the room and tugging on Deacon’s arm. Guy and Baylor followed suit.

“We will continue tomorrow,” Sarah said, bowing before returning to her quarters.

Mak scooped Kimi into his arms, kissing her forehead, “Depends on what Kimi has to say. I don’t want to put her life in jeopardy because she does too much too soon. No one is going to change my mind, not even the witch.” Wanting nothing more than the safety of his woman, he cradled her against his chest. God, she was light as a feather. Had she lost weight since they arrived? He’d make sure she ate right. “I love you,” he whispered for her ears only.

Carrying her up the stairs and through his house, he felt a deep compassion for Kimi. She’d given up so much for him, and still his people put her in grave danger. A battle might not be raged where she was forced to physically fight, but he had the feeling this mental combat she was engaged in was far more dangerous. He cursed Melva for her part in all of this. Then he cursed himself for his role.

Unexpectedly, he felt Kimi wind her fingers through his hair. She snuggled in closer. The warmth of her body close to him did little to ease his conscious. Perhaps he didn’t want the guilt to vanish.

“Umm...” she murmured, “feeling better. Just want to be with you tonight.” And always.

My thoughts too. What changed your mind?

Mak kissed her forehead. “Feeling better? I heard what you told me. Are you too tired for words?” He kicked the door to her room open and stepped inside, eyeing the bed with frustration.

“Yes, so much better. Why did you bring me to my room? Oh hell, it doesn’t matter where we are.” She pulled his head down and kissed him on the mouth. Too many words evaporated my energy, easier to speak without talking.

Shocked, Mak reveled in the feeling for a second before returning the kiss. “You have to rest, you know. I’m not going to be responsible for...” He told her even though his body rebelled, and he wasn’t too sure what he was talking about. It had been so long since any intimacy at all had been shared between them.

“What if I don’t want to rest? What if I want you to make love to me?” She slanted him a sexy as hell grin that made him want to put her on the bed and strip naked. He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the image in his head of Kimi naked in his arms.

Yet he knew better than to rush the agenda of sex between them. No matter how much he wanted to have that closeness with his mate. “We can talk in the morning. After you’ve had a good night’s sleep. More than anything I want to make love to you, but the time isn’t right.”

“I want you,” she said, rubbing her hands up and down his arms then across his chest. She moved closer and kissed the column of his neck, and he knew she tried to seduce him.

He groaned, comprehending the fact that if she kept this up he couldn’t possibly be responsible for his actions. Of course he could. He inhaled a long deep breath and shuttered his feelings, searching for common sense.

Sweet Sexy Sadie is a quick read with a fun plot line, Sadie is researching the migration of butterflies for her thesis she meets Brody when her car overheats in the desert pretty soon the car isn't the only thing overheating. Sadie also has a stalker of a paranormal variety.

The action happens quick and without a lot of back story to have this come out novella length. I enjoyed the chemistry that is immediate between Brody and Sadie. I liked the paranormal element to her stalker and the bond that Sadie and Brody share to overcome the trials in their path to happiness.

This time of year with the kids in school you have lots of chances to sit and wait this is the perfect length book for those times and you can get in a fun love story while you are at it.

BLURB:

From the first time Sadie’s eyes met those of Brody McKenna in the hot Sierra Madre Mountains, theirs was a potent attraction—not gentle, slow, and easy, but hot, hard, and all-consuming. The daughter of a dysfunctional family, Sadie had dreams no man could wrench from her with hot sex and an all-consuming passion. She’d challenge this alpha male with all the strength she possessed. But her red hair, fiery temperament, and indomitable spirit obsessed Brody...and he knew he had to find a way to show her he was more than he appeared and convince her to make a life with him.

From the arid scrub of south Texas to middle Tennessee and suburban Maryland, murderous terrorists carve a path of death and destruction on their mission to get to the usually serene Pennsylvania Poconos and a strike against sacred American values. Pursued by a determined Texas Ranger, who enlists the help of Sam and his troopers, it’s a race against time and the FBI to find the bad guys before they can kill again.

A story within a story within a story. Real characters, real drama, a bit of humor and what makes men and women men and women. Sam has to keep it all from falling apart around him and deal with the pressure from above, outside and his own inner doubts. Another thrilling Sam Deland Crime Novel by the author of Sink Rate, Rope Break and Side Slip.

EXCERPT: Ground Effect

Walid’s running shoes were almost dry. The ride from Del Rio had gone well, so far, but when he glanced to his left, he saw Ghali’s eyelids drooping. They’d been awake for almost two days and had more than a hundred miles to go. The propane tanks in the bed of the stake body truck jingled when they touched as the truck passed over bumps in the road. It was early in the morning and, after crossing the border in the night, they found the truck where their instructions foretold it would be. Now, on the desolate highway moving east into the rising sun, Walid squished his toes inside the shoes and felt the coolness of the Rio Grande’s muddy remains, wishing he could get an American hamburger to fill his growling stomach.

In halting English Walid said, “Wake up. Do you need coffee?” The prospect of finding anything but scrub bushes and dust in this flat near desert seemed remote. The small town they just passed through was still waking up and the only place to eat was crowded with vehicles and men in broad hats and coveralls moving in and out. They had not dared to stop. The long straight road was carrying Ghali to dreamland.

Walid rolled down the widow and let in a greater volume of cool air. It would soon warm in the desert sun and the truck seemed to lack air conditioning. Even the beat up cars back in Benghazi usually had working air conditioning, when they could find petrol.

The truck hummed and jingled and Walid looked up to see the first curve in miles just ahead. He started to look over again at the driver when the truck drifted into the curve, but rather than follow the road to the right, it moved over the yellow center lines.

“Bulis!” came out in Arabic from the startled Walid as he looked straight into the front grill of a Texas state trooper car sliding to the side to avoid smacking head on into the truck.

~ * ~

The morning sun sent a glimmer from the gold bar on Ken’s left shoulder. Sam felt the shafts of sunlight warming the front of his trousers and pushing the chill away. It was going to be another beautiful day and Sam snuck a glimpse upward to the wisps of white beginning to form in the blue sky.

“Then, by the authority vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife. Ken, you may kiss your bride.” The Chaplain smiled and closed his booklet. The small group sighed collectively as the blue uniformed Air Force 2nd lieutenant swept the beautiful black haired bride into his arms and found her lips. Her white dress crinkled as she moved into him and the applause rose with shouts of joy and congratulations filling the air.

Sam couldn’t stop the big fat tear that ran out of his right eye and rolled into plain sight down his cheek. His nose was running too. His son was married and he was happy and sad at the same time.

“Hey, boss, you got a hankie?” Sgt. Walter Stanislaus Ozliewski, Sr. looked very uncomfortable in his state police uniform. Pieces of Ozzie’s 6’3”, 235 pound frame seemed ready to exit the fabric at several places. The brand new sergeant stripes on his grey sleeve covered nicely the spot where just last week corporal stripes were in place.

Sam reached into his dress uniform jacket and came out with two white handkerchiefs and handed one to Ozzie, “Here, I need one too. I guess you never get too old to cry.”

“Weddings and funerals. Every time.” Ozzie slipped his Smokey Bear hat up and mopped his forehead too.

Second Lieutenant Ken Deland and his new wife, the former Grace Echaverria, made their way from the wisteria covered Eisenhower Arch toward the banquet hall of Varnum Military Academy just off the Main Line of suburban Philadelphia. The two lines of guests wore state and local police uniforms and were mixed in with Army and Marine dress blues. Civilians in suits and dresses joined in and applauded the couple.

State police Lieutenant Sam Deland took off his cap and watched the couple walk up the slight hill. He put out his arm and took the baby from Eileen and left her the hat. He hated the thing. The hat, not the baby. The dark haired eighteen-month old boy was asleep, for now. Sam snugged him into his shoulder and took his wife’s hand.

“Now we can feed Ozzie. He was making noises.” Sam grinned and Eileen Matthews Deland walked beside her husband, leaning her head into his unoccupied shoulder. His own gleaming silver lieutenant’s bar was there above her dark hair. She had on a dark blue silk suit with flared pants and shoes that had a heel. Unusual for her. She wore soft leather cowgirl boots most of the time but sacrificed for this day.

Sam had heard that before. A little over four years ago when Ken and Grace met. How they managed to wait until Ken graduated from the Air Force Academy was a wonder. But they had and now they were soon off to Texas for his flight training.

Ozzie was just ahead walking with his whole tribe. Marie and Ozzie had six kids and if she hadn’t lost the last one…

Grace’s mom, Katrina, was a trim, blonde forty-five year old that looked like a movie star. She managed to slide up next to Trooper Calvin Livingston as they moved along the sidewalk. Calvin wore one stripe on his uniform sleeve of a Senior Trooper. Calvin was tall and trim and just one of several black faces in the small crowd. He also was still single and very happy about that.

Katrina was too, happy and single. She met Calvin at the rehearsal dinner and managed to keep him out much later than was good for either of them. Katrina sold real estate in Florida and was enjoying the crisp Pennsylvania air. It was hotter than blazes in Sarasota this first week of June.

“Later?” She said quietly as she passed Calvin. He gave her his million dollar smile and she felt that certain tingle in just the right place.

~ * ~

Not many were left. The heaps of black and grey tailings discarded and piled high from the now closed mines got picked over and hauled off. New technology producing power from the bits of coal left between the rocks and dirt. “Lemme see.” Normy Hansen reached out and tried to take the cheap binoculars from Darrell sitting next to him atop the pile.

“Wait, she went back in,” Darrell Pickford said and lowered the field glasses from his eyes and rubbed them with his dirty hand. “She’ll leave now.”

Normy leaned forward and pulled the round tin of “smokeless tobacco” from the hip pocket of his jeans. The tin would be replaced with another as soon as it was emptied and the succession of the habit had worn a lighter blue ring on the outside of the pocket.

“Kay.” Normy was big and fat with stringy yellow hair and pimples. The stench from the snuff only cut his sweat smell slightly and Darrell shifted a few inches away to a kneeling position and brought the glasses up again.

Darrell could see the woman come out of the nice house in the subdivision below them and slide into her already running BMW. Normy watched but had to squint a bit to even see the car from the distance.

“Give it a while, then we’ll go down and see,” Darrell said.

Normy peeled off his flannel shirt. The sun was up over the hills that ringed this part of Wilkes Barre. The roar of trucks on I-81 was echoing off the rocky slopes and the piles of tailings in the creases between them and the six-inch H&R .22 pistol was digging into his ample backside.

~ * ~

Ghali tried hard to keep the old truck from rolling onto its side and scatter them and the propane tanks into the ditch. The noise of the screaming tires mixed with the music of the bottles of explosive gas bashing into each other as the truck rocked back onto its wheels and went across the road pointed eastbound.

This was the first big thing Ghali had ever driven. A Mercedes van had been the only other commercial sized vehicle and that was just for a short run from Rabat into the deserts of Morocco to deliver it to the training camp. And the Mercedes had power steering and stability control. He’d been selected for this task because of his language abilities, not his driving skill and it almost cost them an early defeat. But now he had the brake lights of the police car in his rear view mirror and they would have to deal with it before the sixty-seven pounds of Semtex was discovered in the backpacks nestled between the propane tanks.

“Get ready, the police are turning after us,” Ghali said between gasps of air. Walid spun in the seat and tried to look out of the back window and between the tanks. Even though the sun was coming up now he could still see the headlights of the patrol car center up on the road and come after them. They were supposed to drive at the speed limit and stop at all the stop signs to avoid drawing attention to themselves. The plans for dealing with the police had been minimal. Stay invisible. Avoid. The mission is primary, evasion and escape secondary. Walid did not intend to martyr himself today. That was for the dirt Arabs with nothing but angry dreams in their heads.

The big heavy wrench clipped to the inside of the driver door was meant to twist open reluctant valves but was the only weapon they had. Ghali jerked it free from its metal clasps and handed it across to Walid.

“They are stopping us,” Ghali said as the overhead flashers lit up. “As we have trained.”

AUTHOR BIO

After writing professional documents for many years, Mike has finally devoted time to his true passion, writing fiction where the story and characters come alive in the reader’s mind. While his days were filled with authoring hundreds of detailed crime reports, arrest affidavits, search warrants and grand jury presentments, he took some of his own time and devoured books by the dozens. Reading not only was a rewarding diversion, it provided him with the added education he needed to function at a high level in his profession.

This has led to the creation of Mike’s crime/suspense/detective novels Sink Rate, Rope Break and Side Slip, the first three in the Sam Deland Crime Novel series. All are expected to be published in 2015 and 2016 by Rogue Phoenix Press

Mike writes with the real life experience that many years of law enforcement shaped and influenced. The stories may be fiction but are based on how things happen in the real world. His books are honest and captivating novels written with a unique voice that will both chill and charm.

Mike is a veteran police detective. He did it all from rookie patrolman to Senior Special Agent. His life has been enriched by a wonderful marriage, parenting, work, flying, sailing and good books. Mike is a lifelong outdoorsman, an experienced tactical firearms instructor, champion sailplane pilot and the captain of his own sailboat. All of these skills have made his novels vivid, exciting and real. Now retired after a career with three law enforcement agencies, Mike enjoys winters writing in Naples, Florida and summers sailing, writing and researching the next novel at his rural Pennsylvania home.

Wednesday, January 10, 2018

Joseph’s second day of travel from Glowing Rocks was
nearing its end when Dorav came upon a side passage that would lead them
through the rear entrance to the chamber of the Well. This was the same
entrance they had used last fall to take the Baron by surprise. Another hour
they pressed on until finally Dorav signaled that the door was just ahead, around
two more bends in the tunnel. Joseph took stock of the band. The hret-dialt
were beginning to fray around the edges, and Ten’marden was now shivering with
fever, though he had kept the pace during the march.

Fifty yards ahead they crept, Dorav and Joseph going
in front and peering around the corner while the hret-dialt protected the
party’s rear. As soon as the human and dwarf poked their heads around the bend
in the tunnel, it was clear something was wrong. At the next bend some hundred
yards distant, instead of a murky tunnel lit only by the steady blue-green
radiance of Dorav’s bowls of lichen, the walls reflected an orange, flickering
firelight. Confirming the immediate stretch of tunnel was clear, Joseph
motioned the rest of the party forward as he and Dorav continued on to the next
bend.

Looking around this next, and final, corner, Joseph’s
fears were confirmed. The rearward door to the Well stood wide open, and the
Baron stood on the other side of the yawning pit, looking at the open doorway
as if expecting someone to appear, his one-eyed gaze fixed on he and Dorav’s
position. Aside from the patch over his eye, the rest of Turov’s features were
now restored, the scar tissue and missing hair replaced by the face he had worn
in life.

Suddenly the ground shook, and Joseph heard cries from
the rest of the party behind them. A deep cracking sound echoed overhead, and
Dorav threw Joseph forward only just in time to avoid the slab of rock that
crashed down from the tunnel ceiling. Around them, the rest of the band was
likewise issuing into the chamber as rock and dust cascaded from above them,
choking the rear tunnel within moments.

“Your arrival is well timed,” the Baron announced.
“The rituals are all but complete, and the master’s heart needs but one thing to
be reunited with him.”

Joseph pressed off the stone floor, moving from a
prone position to a crouch, his weight on the balls of his feet and ready to
shift. As he moved, he saw the stone heart sitting at Turov’s feet, still
pulsing with an internal glow. The Baron had ended his statement with a
pregnant pause, but Joseph wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of asking
him to continue. He looked to the left, where the rest of his companions were
scattered. Ten’marden inched toward Joseph, but Tes’sael was leading the others
around the rim of the Well, trying to flank the Baron. The main, and now only,
entrance to the chamber was in the same direction, which Joseph thought was
fortunate, the need for flight being far more likely than any opportunity to attack.

“You see,” the Baron continued, “those who have grown
wise in the deeper ways of the world understand that there has ever been but
one true currency. So it is today and ever shall be. Only one commodity is
placed above price by mortals, and thus is it the only coin worthy of commerce:
Life.”

Baron Turov glared at Joseph with his single eye, and
Joseph couldn’t help but lock with it. Even over the hundred feet of the Well
between them, the hunter felt suddenly sick. He had never struggled with
heights, spending most of his youth and adulthood climbing up and between
trees, but in that moment he thought he understood the queasy dizziness of
people who did, the inexplicable sense of falling even though his feet were
braced on solid stone. Though he was ignorant of such things, he felt sure this
was no spell; it was the result of seeing into the depths of a dead man’s eye.

Joseph clenched his jaw and took a slow breath through
his nose, steeling body and mind for whatever assault was sure to come. The
hunter caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his left eye, then
everything happened at once.

The Baron flicked his hand out toward Joseph, and a
bolt of crackling darkness sprang forth from the stone heart and headed
straight for him. Tes’sael and the elves nocked arrows and shot with lighting
speed. Dorav threw something, and in a dim corner of Joseph’s mind he was aware
it was his blast rope still in a coil, with one end burning. Joseph lunged to
his right, but the dark energy arced in midflight, continuing its bearing
toward him. The elves’ arrows struck home, piercing the Baron and driving him a
step to Joseph’s right. The blast rope landed between the Baron and the stone
heart. Joseph, horrified that the bolt of darkness seemed to be following him,
reared back in surprise, rising from his crouch into a half-standing,
half-stumbling posture. Suddenly, Ten’marden slammed into Joseph, bowling him
out of the way with his shoulder. Had they been of like size, perhaps his
momentum would have continued and carried him clear, but knocking the larger
human aside left him hanging with his back to the Baron and directly in the
dark bolt’s path. Joseph watched the energy strike the elf and lift him from
the ground, a white light coursing back up the bolt’s path to the stone heart.
The hunter could see in Ten’marden’s eyes a blankness he had scarcely seen
since the war. All life had left him in an instant. The Baron howled in
frustration at the sudden change in his sacrifice as he stepped toward the
blast rope, poised to kick it into the Well.

The rope exploded. As Dorav had predicted, it was not
the staggering blast the powder keg had yielded, but it was enough to fling
Baron Turov back against the nearest wall. The pressure of the explosion hit
the stone heart and moved it, half-sliding half-rolling, to the very brink of
the Well. It teetered crazily on the edge for a moment. Joseph scrabbled for
his bow, but Tes’sael was already shooting, hitting the dense stone once,
twice, thrice in rapid succession. Then it was too late. The stone was too
heavy, and Tes’sael’s angle too shallow. The heart slid off the ledge and fell.

Joseph's life changed when a prophecy foretold his
future, but now his world is threatened by a menace from his past. To prevent a
catastrophe, this lone hunter must accept the help of his newfound friends and
journey into the very heart of the mountains' stone.

Title of book:Community, by Shane Coffey (The Spirit of the
Trees Book 2)

Publisher: Rogue Phoenix Press

Genre: Fantasy

Length: 114 Pages

Rating: 4

Reviewed by: Courtney Rene

This is the story of
Joseph, a loner and survivor.His life
changed drastically thanks to a prophecy that told of his future, all the while
being threatened by his past. Joseph sets out to prevent war and destruction.He is joined by new friends and old on his
trek underground and to new worlds.I
enjoyed this story.It was fast paced
and well defined.The worlds were
creative and hashed out so that I could really see them and get into the story.I was happy to tag along in the back ground
while the characters came to terms with who they were and what they could offer
to the story.It wasn't all sunshine and
roses either.There is always death.It's part of life and war and battles.The author did a great job of keeping it real
and not gratuitous just for the sake of killing someone off.Plus you get elves and dwarfs and trolls,
what's not to like?

I give the book a firm 4 star
rating.The books jumps right into the
action without giving you time to catch up.Usually I like that, but in this type of book, sometimes we need a bit
of lead in.Other than that, I thought
it was well-written, well thought out and quite the entertaining read.Very well done.